


Overdue conversations

by keyrousse



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Lots of dialogue, Post Season 4, Questionable grammar, beta reader needed desperately, more of a comfort than hurt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-02
Updated: 2017-04-08
Packaged: 2018-10-13 23:40:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10524339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keyrousse/pseuds/keyrousse
Summary: A little bit of a fix-it post 4th season of “Sherlock”.





	1. Molly

**Author's Note:**

> A little bit of a fix-it post 4th season of “Sherlock”. Meaningless OCs, lots of dialogue, no slash; no beta reader and I am not a native English speaker, so squint at the grammar, because I know it's bad.  
> I know how to make people read it...  
> Rated T because of an occasional swear word.

“Hello, Molly, can we talk?”

She was tempted to close the door, but Sherlock looked tired and resigned – at least he wasn't high.

“About what?”, she asked.

“That phone call.”

She was still tempted to not let him in, but there was something in his eyes that made her step aside. He entered her flat and stood in the middle of the living room.

“Tea?”, she offered. Sherlock shrugged. Molly went to the kitchen to put the kettle on. She glanced at him, standing on the carpet, in his stupid coat, so tired and lost and somewhat determined. He was forty year-old, she realized, yet he looked much younger. His eyes looked honest, though. She had always thought honesty would make him look older.

“I know it was a lie,” she said and he flinched. “Your words on the phone. I know that you don't love me.”

“It sounds cruel,” he admitted. “But...”, he started, hesitated and stepped into the kitchen. “You told me, no games. In a way, it was a game. Just not a game I played willingly.”

She felt a pang of hurt, but she decided to stay silent. She hoped he would explain.

“The last few days were... rough,” he admitted sincerely. “People died and there was nothing I could have done to prevent it. It was a cruel game and you were dragged into it.”

“What do you mean?”

“I saw a coffin chosen for you,” he blurted. “And I was made to believe that your flat was rigged to blow. You saying those three words would disarm the bomb and I was forbidden to warn you in any way. After you had done it, I was told there was no bomb.”

Molly gasped.

“Who did this?”, she asked.

“My psychotic, genius sister, whom I pushed from my memory after traumas she caused to our family. She was supposed to be dead, but she was alive, locked away for most of her life and she managed to take revenge.”

Molly shook her head in disbelief.

“I know it's hard to believe, but I swear I'm telling the truth,” Sherlock stressed, taking a step towards her, almost begging her. “I swear I would never lie like this to you, to hurt you any more than I already did. Ask John, ask Mycroft. Ask Lestrade, he's heard the whole story, seen her.”

He looked even more desperate. Molly knew he was a great actor, but she decided to hope he was sincere for the moment.

“It took its toll on you, didn't it,” she said.

Sherlock sighed.

“Yes. And made me realize...”

The kettle turned off with a click. Sherlock flinched and tried to hide it.

Molly poured the water into two mugs with teabags already in. She handed one mug to Sherlock. He put his mug down on the counter and took off his coat, hanging it over a chair. They sat on the opposite sides of the table.

He looked thin.

“I am sorry,” he started slowly, looking straight into Molly's eyes. “For lying to you that day. And I realize I have been using you ruthlessly from the day I've met you and gave nothing in return.”

“Sherlock...”, she sighed.

“I do not love you, Molly, not in the way you want,” he interrupted. “But I care about you, deeply. I trust you with my life. I hope we can remain friends. I know I hurt you in the past, but I promise to never do that again.”

Molly swallowed audibly.

“It's not like there were never good moments,” she said. “Like when you returned and we were solving cases...”

“You were a substitute then, Molly,” Sherlock interrupted her again. He was speaking slowly, making sure every word was understood. “Do not consider being a substitute a good moment, because you deserve better.”

“Now you want to take this memory away from me, too?”, she asked, trying to not tear up.

“No,” he replied, softly. “All I'm saying is: you deserve better.”

They were staring at each other for a short while. Molly was amazed, he was never this honest, this open. It was like she saw the real, vulnerable him for the first time since they had known each other. All the time he kept his walls high around him. He had softened, she realized, after he had met John. She knew he was considered a sociopath, but it had been far from truth even before John had come into the picture. This softer Sherlock was easier to love. And it presented a whole new problem.

“It won't be easy, to let you go just like that,” she whispered.

“Please, at least try. I'd be happy to have you as a friend, but I don't want a mere sight of me to cause you pain.”

She nodded and tried to hide her tears behind her mug of tea.

'There was something else that softened him even more', she thought suddenly.

“Did you talk to anyone about what happened to you when you were gone?”, she asked after a moment of silence.

“Not really,” Sherlock admitted, looking into his mug.

“You should,” Molly replied. “You've changed. A lot.”

“Like, how?”, Sherlock asked, looking back at her.

“You're jumpy,” she replied. “You had been clean of drugs for many years and proud of it, but when you returned and found a reason to get back to it, you took it. You are emotional, one moment you're far more open than ever, then a second later you don't want to talk to anybody. And I know you have been hurting all this time after your return, but no-one really wanted to see it.”

“It's not like I was making it easy for anyone,” Sherlock added, surprised how perceptive she was. “I was either hiding, or being an asshole.”

“And I was no better, taking your addiction to myself, slapping you. I saw it as a weakness, as a waste, I forgot you were one of the strongest people I'd ever known and I didn't even ask why would you do that.”

“I wanted to die,” he admitted. “I was sent on a suicide mission, I was prepared to do my job and die there, but then I was called back...”

“And you kept losing everything you had,” she finished, putting down her mug and coming to his side of the table. She saw that he was desperately trying to build himself back up, to regain the strength he had been known of. He did it one step at a time, starting with her.

“My mind included,” Sherlock added, looking at her. “I almost lost you. I am sorry, Molly, for everything I have done to you. I would try to make it up for you, only if I knew how.”

“I will try to help. I want to be your friend, too,” she replied with a sad smile. “Apology accepted, of course.”

Sherlock just snorted and shook his head. Molly reluctantly put her hand on his shoulder, then gave him a one-armed hug and leaned her head on his shoulder. He only lowered his head and closed his eyes in silent gratefulness.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know if I should post the next chapter (a one kudos of two would be enough ;) ). If anyone wants to beta-read it beforehand, please also let me know.


	2. First signs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter, gramatically challenging (still no beta).

Sherlock knew he probably had PTSD. It was untreated and eating him away. When he had returned from Serbia, he had been desperate to make his life back to normal, believing that this way he would forget about what had happened to him – but it was impossible. John – his only hope in this plan – had left Baker Street and he was too busy living with Mary to join him on cases. So all Sherlock had, was Mycroft, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade, with only his brother knowing what had happened to him, but Mycroft, as he was even more unaccustomed to emotions than Sherlock, could not read the change in his behavior.

So Sherlock was left mostly alone to deal with memories. Molly was right: he was trying to find some reason to get back to taking drugs, to forget.

And Mary... They were all pretending Sherlock had forgiven her for almost killing him. In the end, a lie repeated enough times became the truth. Sherlock learned to appreciate how smart she was, and she was good for John, too. If John was happy with her, then he could live with that, despite the scar on his chest and lingering pain during weather change.

But then she was gone. John forgave him again. They put themselves back together. While 221B was renovated, Sherlock took turns living with Mycroft and John. His brother was just as shaken after Eurus' affair as Sherlock, and John appreciated the company, taking care of Rosie again. The doctor decided to return to Baker Street with his daughter; Sherlock did not protest, nor did Mrs Hudson, happy to be close to her acting-granddaughter.

So, Sherlock's days were filled with cleaning up his flat, helping John with Rosie, dealing with his parents and trying to get to Eurus. He was the one to come up with the idea of speaking through violin play. It worked, his sister joined his musical monologue and replied with her own. There was no hope for her ever being released from Sherrinford, but she became something more than a psychopathic manipulator. A spark in her eye was born and it wasn't dangerous. It was full of curiosity and awareness, so typical to the three Holmes siblings.

During that time, Sherlock was too busy to even think about taking drugs (he got clean during his almost-suicidal stint at Smith's hospital), in the evening he was too tired to have nightmares.

Sherlock also tried to keep a discreet eye on Molly. He noticed with some satisfaction that she spent some time outside her flat after working hours, so she wasn't locking herself in. When he had to call her, she picked up, they talked business, they both did what the other asked for and that was it. No emotions, no tears, no manipulations. They made a huge step back and from the outside the relations between them looked cold, but they both knew they needed time to recreate their friendship. It was good, or at least promising.

 

* * *

 

When Sherlock was sleeping in John's flat, the doctor noticed one thing: Sherlock slept in actual pajamas. It was a long sleeved shirt and long trousers in pastel, mild colors. It was a weird sight, considering Sherlock had been sleeping naked, but had been decent enough to wrap himself in a bedsheet if he had been supposed to be seen by anyone, including John.

But that was before he 'died'. John realized that he had not seen Sherlock in his 'night attire' since his friend had returned from the dead.

John thought is was because of Rosie, that Sherlock expressed some human decency and tried to not be caught naked by a small child.

But as their lives became slightly calmer before their move back to 221B, Sherlock was not as exhausted in the evenings to not dream.

One night John heard something like a moan and words in a language he did not recognize coming from Sherlock's bedroom. It sounded pained. John looked inside the room and saw Sherlock curled up on his bed, with his pajama shirt rumpled and pulled up, with strange lines visible across his naked back. At first, he thought is was a shadow. But then he noticed that these lines moved with Sherlock as he started to thrash on the bed.

“Sherlock!”, John called, trying to not wake up his daughter. The detective did not react, only whimpered.

“Sherlock, wake up!”, John tried again, coming closer to his friend, but knowing that touching him was a bad idea. “Sherlock!”

Sherlock flinched violently and sat up on his bed.

“Are you alright?”, John asked carefully.

Sherlock took a deep breath.

“Yes, I'm fine, thank you,” he replied quickly, not looking at the doctor, but staring ahead.

“Okay,” John replied and started backing out of the room, but still kept an eye on his friend. “Good night,” he added and left the room.

“Good night, John,” he heard from behind the door.

In the morning, they both pretended that nothing had happened.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You are very welcome to point out horrific mistakes.


	3. A friend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here comes meaningless OC. Sorry in advance.

When Sherlock knocked on Molly's door, it wasn't her who opened it. Before him stood a man in his mid-thirties, with dark hair and dark eyes. The man smiled at him.

“Hi! You must be Sherlock Holmes. Richard Miller, nice to meet you,” he said, but did not offer his hand to shake.

“Is Molly home?”, Sherlock asked as politely as he could, looking behind the man.

“Yeah, well, I just hid her body in the back...”, Richard said reluctantly, glancing inside the flat.

Sherlock slowly put his eyes on him.

Richard Miller was an inch shorter than Sherlock, build similarly to John, but thinner. Sherlock noted small details in his appearance, like callouses on his fingertips, suggesting a guitar player; slightly bulging biceps under his shirt sleeves, loose and comfortable posture of someone exercising regularly; widely set eyes and a flat and wide nose, suggesting not entirely European descent. The man could be seen as handsome. His voice was soft, he spoke with a proper London accent.

The man was looking at him with visible amusement in his eyes despite the serious expression on his face.

“Not funny, Richard!”, Molly called from inside her flat.

“I really hope you are not using your acting skills on her,” Sherlock said to Richard. The man flashed his teeth in a smile.

“Of course not, we're friends,” Richard replied, at the same time solving a little mystery of what was bugging Sherlock about his accent: he dropped London in favor of clear Australian, which sounded much more natural for him.

“What is it, Sherlock?”, Molly asked, appearing by the door wearing a casual dress, clearly ready to leave.

“Tomorrow at five we have a small family and friends gathering, at Baker Street,” Sherlock explained. “I hope you will come. You can bring your... friend,” he added, waving his hand in Richard's direction.

“Oh, no thanks,” Richard protested. “I don't think I fit into 'family and friends' category.”

“But you're Molly's friend,” Sherlock pointed out politely.

“But I'm not yours,” Richard replied, still smiling and it looked disturbingly friendly and natural.

Sherlock stared at him. The man was still smiling; he was not easily intimidated and Sherlock had to appreciate that.

“I'll come,” Molly replied, trying to break the tension.

“Good. Have a nice day,” Sherlock replied and turned away.

“You too,” Richard called after him and Sherlock heard a smack of a hand and Richard's exaggerated 'ow!' after that.

Sherlock smiled and started looking for a taxi. Molly was in good hands.

After five minutes of fruitless search he decided that the weather was nice enough for a long walk. Then his phone started ringing. Sherlock was not surprised when he saw Molly's name on the screen.

“Yes?”, he answered politely, not stopping.

“Well?”, she asked expectantly.

“Well what?”

“I'm sure you have a lot to say.”

“No, I don't,” he replied with a smile.

“Please, Sherlock.”

“Molly, I have nothing to say,” he repeated while crossing the road. “Clearly you have a friend you didn't want me to meet, you like him, he likes you and he's able to get you out of your flat. He's also heard of me, is protective of you and self-confident enough to try to provoke me to insult him and not be afraid of what he would hear.”

“Why didn't you? I mean, insult or at least 'deduce' him?”

“I'm sure he can answer that question. And I did deduce him, just not out loud. Enjoy your evening and see you tomorrow,” Sherlock finished and ended the call, still smiling.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really sorry, I have this phase and I had to put Craig Horner's evil twin (looking exactly like his profile picture on IMDb) in here.


End file.
